Check In
by RunXRun
Summary: Roxas is in a psychiatric ward and he meets Axel. Story takes you through their journey. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Check In

I don't actually belong in here, but if you ask anyone else in this God forsaken place, they will say they don't belong here either. I'm serious when I say I don't, though.

They say crazy people don't know they're crazy. Oops.

I admitted myself into this place. I was worried I was going to hurt someone. More specifically myself. I didn't feel safe at home. I live alone in an apartment building. Couple that with depression and you will see where I'm going with this.

Point is, I didn't feel safe, and I wanted to get help, but my doctor ignored everything I'd tell him. I mean, he'd give me some pills, but none of them seemed to work. I was beginning to think I had something else. I was at a stand-still with my doctor. Felt like he couldn't do much else, and my therapist was more interested in talking to me about other problems.

So I checked myself into Winup Hospital. But they were kind enough to move me to the psychiatric ward. I thought they'd keep me around for a few days. Monitor my behaviour, ask me some questions, let me speak to someone.

It's been a week.

I don't belong here.

The psychiatric ward is connected to the main hospital, but it's a building all on it's own. We have blinding white rooms, a bed with equally blinding white sheets and covers. We have a dining hall, and a recreation room. Therapy rooms and meeting rooms. We even have a small outdoor area. The nurses would take us out there so we could look at the clouds, or the trees. There was a stone gate surrounding us though. No one can see in. No one can see out.

It was like a prison, except there were no bars.

We were also allowed to roam during the day, and they let us keep our clothing to an extent. We weren't allowed belts, necklaces, jewelry - shit like that. If it could hurt us, it was taken away. They took our shoes away if they had laces, and they gave us a pair of white hospital shoes.

No one stood out in this place. If you walked in off the street, you'd probably assume we were all volunteers for the hospital. You'd never guess we were all here for wanting to hurt ourselves. All of us had a different story, but the final line was all the same.

I wanted to die.

Some changed "wanted" with "want", but you get the general idea. We were all in a battle with ourselves. It's sort of like when you grab someone's hand and make them hit themselves, while chanting "Why are you hitting yourself?", except the person grabbing you is just a metaphor for depression.

"Roxas, how are you feeling today?"  
"Like I don't belong here."  
"Are you still wanting to harm yourself?"  
"Not really."

It changes. One minute I'll be okay, and the next minute I'll know exactly why I'm here. It changes, and my answer changes. Right now I don't want to hurt myself. Ask again in fifteen minutes.

"Would you like to pick up where we left off, or do you have something else you would like to talk about?"  
"Where we left off."  
"Are you ashamed of being gay?"

I wasn't, and I'm not.

She, Doctor Lillian Pinight, asks that because of my father. Because he was ashamed of me being gay.

I think they're trying to find a root to my depression, and my parents are definitely a good starting point. A pretty accurate one too.

"Not ashamed of being gay. Ashamed of disappointing them."

They were still my parents, even if they were cruel.

In the past week we spoke mostly about them. What they did, Dr. Pinight telling me how it wasn't my fault, how I survived being kicked out, if I had supportive friends.

The truth was, they were fine. They supported my decisions, they told others about my accomplishments, they were like regular parents. But then I told them I was gay, and I watched my kind, loving parents turn into cruel, foul creatures.

They didn't kick me out right away, but I knew it was going to happen. I didn't want to be in that house anyway.

"Get out of my sight, faggot."

That was my dad's favourite word. Faggot. If he had to ask me something, or tell me to do something, he'd use that word. He'd get my attention with that word. He'd say it just to say it.

My mother watched. She never said much of anything. She'd watch my dad push me around. She'd listen to him tear me down.

Your purpose in life was to have babies. Two men can't have kids. You're worthless. Faggot.

"I stayed because I felt like I deserved what they were doing."  
"Why would you deserve that, Roxas?"  
"I'm their only child and I let them down."

One responsibility of growing up is don't hurt your parents. I didn't live up to that.

"Do you still feel like you deserved it?"  
"Sometimes."  
"When?"  
"When I want to die."

We spoke about my parents for the whole hour, and I knew next time we'd speak about them. I told Dr. Pinight that I didn't have suicidal thoughts until this happened. I didn't exactly lie. I had thoughts, but never serious thoughts. Fleeting thoughts. Thoughts I didn't dwell on or believe. Thoughts most teenagers have growing up.

I sighed and sat at one of the recreation tables. The television was playing in the background, but I'm not sure what they had on. If I had to guess, I'd say it was cartoons. Most of us in here like cartoons. Makes us feel nostalgic. Brings us back to a time when we wanted to be alive. When we were happy to be alive.

I stared down at the checkered board. Checkers. I was never good at them, but I enjoyed playing. People say you can develop strategies and if you do, you will win. I didn't have the brain for that. Pick a piece, move. Risk it.

Glancing around the room, I tried to find a partner. Most people were busy. Some were reading, some watching TV, some had games already set up. Most people, but not all.

He was the one person that stood out in this place.

I couldn't tell you why. Maybe it was the impossible red hair, or the hospital outfit he had on. White pajama pants, white t-shirt, white shoes, pale skin, red hair. He had two tattoos below his eyes. Upside down tear drops, I think. How fitting. Scars. He had scars all over his arms.

Most of the people in this place had them. Battle scars. Warrior patches.

He stood out. Maybe it was one of those things, but I think it was all of them.

I picked up the checker board and walked over to his table. He wasn't playing a game or reading. He was staring out the window.

"Care to join me?"

He's staring at me now, but he's not saying anything. Is that an invitation, or a sign to fuck off? I decide it's an invitation, so I set my board down and turn it so he gets to play red. Red for the redhead.

"Black goes first, I think," I say as I examine the board.

Picking up my first piece, I move it one space and sit back.

"Your move."

He's not looking at the board, but at me. His eyes are searching for something, but I'm not sure what. I don't mind, I have nothing to hide.

My name is Roxas, I'm nineteen years old, but I'll be twenty in a few months. I don't drink, smoke, or do any other type of drugs because I hate being out of control. I'm gay, and my parents don't like that. Most of my "friends" don't either and I currently have one friend - Sora. He knows I'm in here. I worked at Subway until I decided to come here. I told them I had family issues. I am Roxas, and I wish I wasn't.


	2. Fight or Flight

His eyes told me nothing, but I don't think he's hiding anything. His eyes are just empty. Probably explains why he's in here. Your eyes are the window to your soul, and everyone in this place had empty eyes. Empty or broken.

He's waiting for me to take my turn, but I haven't decided if I want to play with him yet.

I don't want to lose and embarrass myself and I doubt I'll win. I've never been good at checkers, or any board game for that matter. So I'll lose, and he'll think I'm a loser and he'll laugh at me.

I wonder what he's thinking now. I wonder what his judgement is.

I bite my lip and examine the board. I see no moves that would benefit me, so I decide to use "eenie meenie miney mo" to pick my piece. Taking and moving it, I lean back and look at the blond sitting in front of me.

I hope my eyes don't show the fear I'm feeling.

People aren't my thing. I don't hate them, but they terrify me. Right now I can feel the panic rise into my throat like bile. One person. One person who wants to play a game with me. He doesn't look like he wants to hurt me, he just wants to pass the time. One person has the power to scare me.

I'm in here because I panic. I panic, and I'm afraid. My fear turned into a fear of fear, and that fear brought on a fear of the outside. Consistant. Never letting up. All day, every day.

I slit my throat because I was tired of it. I was tired of being afraid.

Funny how that works out, really. I had no one come visit me for months, but the day I decide to kill myself I get company. I don't know who was more shocked, him or me.

I've been in here for six months, and he hasn't come to see me. I don't think we're friends anymore. I'd say I don't mind, but I do. Friends don't come easy to me.

I don't blame him for not wanting to come around though. I'm a burden and I probably fucked him up. After all, I doubt anyone wants to see their friend covered in blood with their throat cut open.

I'll have to send him an apology if they let me out of here.

"Your move."

I feel like I've swallowed sand and glass. His eyes are back on me, examining me. I can't tell what he's thinking, but I don't want to play anymore. It's too much. I can feel my skin start to crawl, and regret from moving that piece is setting in. But I can't tell him I don't want to play. That would be mean.

I can feel the blunt end of my nails digging into my wrist. This is what I do when I'm scared, and the nurses quickly picked up on it and cut my nails.

"... If you don't want to play, just say so."

I feel rude. Here I am, sitting with my head down and my hand wrapped tightly around my wrist. No eye contact, just me staring at my pants. I'm a mean person. All he wanted to do was play, and I couldn't.

"I'm sorry."

My voice is barely there, but I hope it's loud enough for him to hear it. I really am sorry. I don't mean to be rude.

I can feel his eyes on me again. Judging me. Freak. Weirdo. Loser.

I can't stay here.

I stand, but I do it too quickly and knock the table back, making the board and pieces fall off the table and into his lap. People are staring, I know they are. What a clumsy fool.

I rush back to my room.

I can still feel them watching.


	3. Mouse Trap

I watched the panic seep into his eyes and his hands begin to shake. I watched his jaw tense and tears I don't think he was aware of slip down his cheeks. I watched him flee like a mouse.

I think I know why he's in here.

I'm not sure what I should do. On one hand I could go and make sure he's alright even though I'm positive he isn't, but what if he wants to be alone? On the other hand I could just sit here and watch cartoons with the others, forgetting about the mouse that ran into his room, but what if he's hurting himself?

Sighing, I pick up the pieces that fell onto the floor and my lap and set them on the table. I have to make sure he isn't hitting his head against the wall or something. I don't want a death on my hands, so I stand and head in the direction he fled.

They don't let us close our doors all the way during the day, but finding him isn't easy. I peeked into each room and found no one, but I know he came back here. Maybe he ran back while I was picking up the pieces and is now outside, or hiding in the bathroom?

Turning and heading back down the hall is when I notice him. Room six. The door is open just enough to please the nurses, but it's also enough to let me see in. To see him. Curled into the corner beside the bedside table. Curled up and biting his finger with his eyes shut tight. How did I miss him?

"I didn't mean to scare you."

I jump as he jumps, but I'm not sure why I'm startled. I watch as he shakes his head and brings his knees closer to his chest. Is he trying to disappear? If that's the case, it isn't working.

"My name is Roxas ..."  
"Please go away."

I feel my eyebrow raise at the sound of his voice. Soft. Scared.

"I'm not going to hurt you, you know."  
"Please go away."

Shaking my head, I walk to the other side of the door to take myself out of sight.

"Does it help if you don't see me?"  
"Please go away."

I'm not sure if he really wants me to leave or if he's just chanting that out of habit. I'm also not sure why I'm not leaving. I'm not worried about him, and I'm not afraid for him anymore. Guilt? Do I feel guilty that I made him cry? That I made him want to disappear?

"Look," I step out from behind the door and stand in the doorway, "There isn't anything to worry about. I want to be your friend."

Bullshit. You don't make friends in this place. Everyone here is poison to one another. But when he relaxes, I can leave. I can pretend this never happened, and I can make sure I never let it happen again.

He's a mouse, and he thinks I'm the trap.


	4. Vivid

He thinks I'm silly. He thinks I'm a coward, a crybaby. I can see it in his eyes. Disgust.

"Please go away."

I don't understand why he isn't listening. I don't like him. He said he wasn't going to hurt me, yet here he is hurting me. Not intentional though, no, never intentional. Admitting it was intentional is admitting you're a bad person, and no one is bad.

My skin is crawling, and it's too hot. Too hot. I'm scratching my arms. Not to hurt me, but to stop the tingling. To stop my skin from crawling right off of my body. I can hear my heart beat. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Fast. Too fast. Am I dying? No. No, this might be madness setting in, finally taking me. I'm going mad.

I feel the click, and suddenly everything is too here. Too bright. Too intense. Too vivid. I'm here, but I'm not. Scratch. Ba-dum.

Looking at the blond hurts. Too blond. Too blue.

"Are you okay?"

"Please go away."

I can feel my tears burning my cheeks. I'm on Earth, but I'm in Hell. Demons have entered into my mind. They're setting up, making it home. Hell. I'm going to be trapped in Hell for the rest of my life. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

I watch as he places his hand on my knee, but he isn't doing anything else. He's thinking. Mad. This person has gone mad.

"Can you tell me two plus two?"

Math. Math. He wants to do math. Two plus two. Four.

"Four."  
"Five plus four?"  
"Nine."  
"Eight plus six?"

I have to use my fingers. My hands. Too there. Too me. Eight plus six. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

"Fourteen."  
"Five times five?"  
"Twenty five."  
"Do you know Spongebob?"  
"Yes"  
"Where does he live?"  
"Bikini Bottom."  
"In?"  
"Pineapple."  
"Can you tell me why Squidward thinks he's annoying?"  
"...Because he's loud, and never shuts up. He doesn't leave Squidward alone, and his laugh is horrible."

I blink and look at him. He's not too there, and he isn't too blond. He's normal. Staring down at my hands makes me tilt my head. They aren't too there, or too me either. I'm here.

"Are you okay?"

Nod. I'm nodding. I'm worried still, but I know the attack is over. My brain was pulled out of Hell before it was too late. Math. Math and Spongebob, and this blond.

"My name is Roxas."  
"I'm Axel."  
"It's nice to meet you, Axel."

I nod again, but this time it's a lie.


	5. Soldiers

Axel.

I want to laugh at the irony.

The name Axel means "father of peace", but I can tell his mind is anything but at peace. I can tell his mind is always on. Working. Worrying. He's like a clock. No, he's like a spiral. Always spinning, never stopping. Around and around.

My eyes dart from his eyes and down to his neck. Peace was not something this man has ever really felt. Even when he did that to himself he was in a state of worry. Who will find me? Will they bury me? What if the afterlife is like this, but worse? What if there is no afterlife? Worry. Spiral.

"I don't think you want to play checkers now."  
"I don't."  
"What if I bring a board in here?"  
"I'll pass."

I nod and stand. My work here is done. He has calmed down, and I will wear no guilt if he harms himself. But I can't seem to leave. I've stood, and I've turned, but I'm stuck. He's still sat on the floor, curled up on himself. Still scared.

"Why are you still frightened?"  
"It never stops."

I don't know what that's like. I don't know what it's like to always be afraid. I have nothing to say to him anymore because nothing I say can help him. So I sit down. I sit across from him.

"You think too much. Why?"  
"I can't stop it."

His life is controlled by something he can't help. That I can relate to, so I nod again and I hope he understands what I mean. I don't understand him, or his situation, but I understand what it's like to have something out of your control take total control.

"I'm in here because I wanted to hurt myself. I was worried."

His eyes are on me again. They would be beautiful if they weren't like that. Weren't full of fear, weren't so lost.

I shrug and smile at him, "I don't suppose that comes as a surprise."

Leaning back against the wall, I stretch my legs out and watch as the father of peace unfolds himself slowly and sits cross-legged beside me.

"And you?"

I turn my face towards him and look back into his eyes. They're awful to look at - heartbreaking, but I can't look away. Something about him makes me want to help him. Understand him. To reassure him he's not alone.

"I hurt myself."

I turn and look at the door, watching as different people pass by, completely unaware of our presense.

Our stories are different, but we're all the same.

We're all wounded soldiers.


	6. Alone

We're watching people go by.

Watching, but we're not saying anything.

I wonder what he's thinking.

Is he thinking about all the people in here and how they got here? The stories they could share if they wanted to? Is he trying to pick out who has seen the light at the end of the tunnel? Is he trying to see who he can relate to, if anyone?

I did that before.

I looked around and tried to find someone as scared as I was. I tried to find the panic. I tried to find someone I could relate to because if I did that, I'd be okay. Hey, someone knows what it's like. I'm not alone.

_Not alone._

I bite my tongue so the look of disgust won't show on my face.

_You're not alone._

When you're in here, you hear that on a daily basis. Two, three, sometimes four times a day. You're not alone. People go through what you're going through, people make it through what you're going through. People survive what you're going through.

It should make us feel better. It should give us hope to know that we're not alone, and that we can make it through this. Somehow, for me, it is the opposite.

I hear success stories of people who were anxious becoming motivational speakers and I can't help but envy them. Hearing that I'm not alone makes me feel that much more secluded. That much more alone.

Will I be a success story? Somehow I doubt it.

Maybe that's why I'll fail.

"You think they'll ever let you out of here?"

I shrug.

They might one day. When I can go outside without crying. When I can go into the group meetings without running off before it starts. They might, but what will I do then?

"Not any time soon."

It's the only thing I'm sure of.


	7. Slam

I left after that. Small talk wasn't my forte, and I knew he wanted nothing to do with it. I didn't have anything to say and he didn't want to say anything, so why make us both uncomfortable?

I watched him lay down as I left. I watched his long legs go up to his chest, and I watched as his hands curled up to his chest. I watched him create a safe place for himself. Terrified without panicking. Curled up trying to protect himself from his own mind. I shook my head. I had my own issues to deal with, I can't be bothered with someone elses'.

Sitting back at the table I first met Axel, I looked around and sighed. I didn't want to play a game anymore and even if I did, no one was available. I found my thoughts traveling back to the redhead.

He's taller than me by what looks to be five or six inches, but I stand at 5'5 so I'm used to people being taller. What was odd about his height though, is how he was tall, but he looked so small. Breakable, fragile.

Everything about him looked breakable. His wrists, eyes, spirit - all of it. I could tell he didn't have many - if any - friends. He was too breakable.

People have a cruel ability and tendancy to leave people when they're always low. It is as if that person stops being human and becomes "that sad thing."

"I'm surprised he hasn't kill himself yet." Haha.  
"He's sooo depressing. Why?" Hahaha.  
"Why doesn't he just die if he hates himself so much?" HahahahaHA!

I felt my body tense at my train of thought. Getting worked up wouldn't solve anything. One. Two. Three. Hahaha. Four. FIVE. SIX. SEVAHAHA.

I slammed my fists onto the table, causing others around me to jump and stare. The nurse gave me me a questioning look and I could only shake my head and mouth "Sorry."

Remember when I said I checked myself in because I was afraid of hurting myself, and _others_? That's more of an issue than I let on. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to hurt everyone - just those who annoy me. My temper can be brought out by almost anything, and I have an issue with knowin what to do when it comes out.

Maybe I do belong in here.


End file.
